Art is in the eye of the beholder,
Not the majesty of where it is displayed.
Not one found her beautiful
When she hung herself in the Louvre.
Rosy lady on the wall,
Mona Lisa smirks,
She knows why,
She saw the fight in her eyes,
Why the loop tied to the ceiling called and frightened,
But in the end, answers can’t matter for she was already gone.
Beautiful pieces of fragile architecture, Glass Pyramids almost touch
Beautiful pieces of fragile architecture, Like her toes and the floor.
Like her heartbeat. One to another not quite connecting,
Like her stubborn breath, Hel. ter-skelt er
The sunrise allows us to see her there,
Morning blossoms over thousands of beautiful works,
Among them there hangs an outlier
An insider fallen from grace
And life’s loving embrace.
Pulled by gravity
Into the light through the noose,
Up into heaven.
Juliet, were you beautiful?
Were you art?
Shakespeare wrote your story into sadness.
You took yourself to the flowery end,
Wrapped up the plot, stole the spotlight,
And walked to the next world in a wedding dress.
You taught generations that “true love” is to the death,
Unintentionally validating suicide in the broken meantime.
You left the rubble of your city, family, to fly through the gates
Of gold and clouds
But did you deserve it?
Should the dosage have been too small,
The dagger too dull?
Why praise an artless alternative to the ultimate
another morning body risen not from the dead
But from sleeps temporary reprieve?